Half a Year
by L'histoire
Summary: Aymeric & the WoL have ... a moment or two.
1. Alpha

It is a few months – half a year, perhaps, maybe longer, you're not much for keeping time these days – after the defeat of Nidhogg, and you still come back to Ishgard with some frequency, although it is no longer "home" for the Scions (but, as Ser Aymeric reminds you every time he greets you, it is still _your_ home in many respects). You are surprised at how fond you've grown of the place. The imposing architecture contrasted with delicate arches and pretty stonework, impossibly thin pillars leading to a frosty abyss – contradictions all, and it's still full of orthodox believers and 'heretical' non-believers, alongside the most obvious, terrible, yawning class gap you've yet witnessed in Eorzea.

Life here is brutal, and not simply on account of the cold.

But then, you reason, maybe it's not _Ishgard_ you're fond of as much as some of those who reside here. And memories of those who used to, at least in part.

And so you come back, as you often have – the guards of the Congregation let you through to his office without announcing your presence, and this warms your heart a bit – but today, you lean heavily against the imposing door to shut it. Letting the usually implacable _Warrior of Light_ mask drop, the relief you feel washes across your features, you know – it's quiet here, empty save for him. Those famously pale blue eyes look at you, and beneath that, his lips quirk into half a smile. You feel faint, and you're not entirely sure the cause: _him_ , or just general I-have-been-out-too-long-and-I'm-tired. Probably a mixture of both.

"Welcome home," comes that rich voice and you could throw yourself on him in happiness if it wouldn't be completely undignified.

You apologize for your intrusion – he looks busy, as always, because of course he is – and he gives a gentle laugh as he shakes his head. _No matter_. You're you, and usual rules don't quite apply. He does, however, ask you about your travels – _what have you seen? Who did you meet? Anything of interest?_ – and you begin to answer as your eyes flit about the familiar room.

At some point in your absence he had a simple bench moved in to the otherwise spare and cavernous space – his massive desk, an outsized chair, and that was about it – and it is here you let yourself relax, wrapping your fur-lined cape around you. He asked you to talk, so you do – and he responds in kind, telling you of Eorzean politics, who said what to whom, what new crises are perhaps looming. You burrow into the hood of your cloak – Aymeric won't mind, and you're cold again, not being quite so inured to the Coerthan chill these days – and lean against the wall, letting your eyes shut.

Time passes.

You wake up with a start, make some sleep-addled noise, and realize groggily that the Lord Commander of Isghard is looking at you with a bemused expression. _By the gods, how long have I been sleeping?_ He laughs – not long, an hour or two, he tells you, and apparently seeing how tired you are, asks if you'd care for some tea.

You're relieved it's not cocoa, and accept his gracious offer.

After a few minutes of fussing with kettles and mugs, he kneels before you, tea in hand, and you breathe in the steam hungrily. It takes a few minutes before it is cool enough to do more than sip gingerly, and so you just take in the aroma of milk and tea and birch syrup. Aymeric and his syrup. You wonder if he has any idea so much of his supply was wrought by _your_ hand. Probably not – why would he?

He is very close to you, and you like it more than you can say. But finally the tea cools a bit, and you do more than sip, you gulp it with abandon - and something in you breaks for no reason you can discern. You set the mug down, trading its warmth for the warmth of your twisting hands - you take a deep breath and try not to cry as your breath comes faster and faster.

Aymeric – the Lord Commander, you remind yourself, Lord Speaker at that~ is the one witnessing this breakdown of yours, which tunes you to be even more hysterical, how had it all come to this. But he is Aymeric - loyal and good and strong – so asks what's wrong, and you want to laugh, because how could he not know? And yet – how could he?

It all comes tumbling out – how _tired_ you are of this grind, the running here and there, go here, do that, risk life and limb and often those of your friends, suffer terrible losses, pick up, dust off, go on, and just when you think it's over – no! go back and do it all again. Always. How you just want to _be_ for a few months. Quite simply, you're exhausted. And no one seems to care.

You are close to tears, and he gently puts his arms around you. Resting your head against his shoulder, you are first glad he is not wearing his _clanging trappings_ and then concentrate on slowing your heart beat. And not crying.

 _I'm sorry_ , you murmur finally, sadly, when you no longer feel your heart is going to beat out of your chest or you are simply going to burst out sobbing. _You're the last person I should be complaining to_.

Ah, he reminds you. _His_ burdens can be delegated, put down in some cases. Yours cannot - that is the truth that goes unsaid.

You pick your head up to look at him, and realize suddenly that you just want to kiss him – desperately, as if nothing else matters. You ponder this for a few beats: lean towards him slowly, think of options slowly, do everything slowly until your lips meet, at which point you abandon slowness for a certain frantic energy.

 _Gods above_ he is beautiful – warm, alive, _wanting_. And wanting _you_.

You let yourself not think for a while, just feel. Let yourself feel him.

But finally you feel panic welling up: what does this mean, and how, and for how long, and at what price? He must remember what happened the last time you allowed yourself some latitude in affection and closeness. _You_ certainly do.

With gasps, you push his hands away, trying not to catch sight of his eyes, which are searching, curious. Concerned. You know all of this. You simply say –

 _No, no_. And _I must be away_ – as you scramble up awkwardly as he still reaches for you.

You are too fast – too nimble– and he cannot catch you, though part of you wishes you would just _let yourself be caught_. But not tonight. You snatch up your cloak, and beat a hasty retreat.

And that is how it comes to pass that you leave the Lord Commander of Ishgard on his knees – watching you, _watching_ you – as you step out into the Congregation, hoping neither the color on your cheeks, nor your haste to get away, is too obvious. If those go undetected, so will your reddened lips.


	2. Shadows

You're good at running.

More precisely, you're good at running _away_ from certain things by flinging yourself headlong into others. You're not quite sure what do when you are simply running, and there is no other thing to toss yourself at.

But still, you run. Or, at the very least, move along with a certain purpose in your stride.

Sometimes, you let your chocobo lead the way; at other points, you rein it in, turn your face up to the dappled shadows or clouds and just breathe. It doesn't really matter, either way – you are simply thinking and existing, whether standing still or jogging along at an easy pace. Letting yourself _be_.

You send brief notes to Alphinaud, who happened to arrive in Ishgard for unknown reasons at the same time you were rushing out – _no, no, it's nothing, just need some air and freedom is all_ – letting him know you are alive and keeping him appraised of where you are, assuring him you have not died for some stupid reason. You tromp through the Forelands, then head for the Hinterlands – being amongst the decaying ruins, still beautiful after all this time, does something good for your heart, especially on clear nights when a million stars glitter overhead. And in Idyllshire, there are so many people passing through that no one pays any particular attention to you.

It's a relief - a bloody relief. To just be anonymous again, mostly - almost like you were once, long ago. To have no one demanding your attention or time, unless you seek it out. To just _be_.

After two weeks, your soul feels more settled. So you suppose it is time to go back, though you cannot possibly imagine the sort of reception you'll receive – because, at the moment, you have nowhere else _to_ go. Nowhere else to _be_ , more precisely, for once, so to Ishagard it is; back to … well, issues. _We'll cross that bridge when we come to it_ , you say out loud, thinking of Aymeric, just as your chocobo shies at shifting shadows and its wild brethren in the Forest. It makes you laugh – you were told, by the experienced grooms in the Holy Stables, that they all grow out of their youthful exuberance, but yours shows no sign of mellowing with age.

It's pleasant – more than that, it's a pleasure to be out with your bird that shies from shadows and animals, to think of nothing in particular except the ways shadow shift, the way the light changes. Eorzea is _beautiful_ – something that has been easy to forget in the running here and there, the constant grind that sets your teeth on edge. Sunsets are a wonderful treat; so is night, especially all the stars. But the dawns, too – really, all of it, just being able to soak it in. Part of you wishes you could just remain like this forever.

Alas – you cannot.

You're nervous entering the stables, though you know you have no need to be – the grooms will ask no awkward questions, nor inquire after your absence. They'll be eminently practical, and you will appreciate this more than they will ever know. You'll tell them about the scrape on your chocobo's hock, how you've managed it thus far, and what a good steed he is – the very best in all the world, and you believe that fully. They will tell you the scrape is nothing serious (it isn't), that he does seem to be the best in all the world (that, you know, he absolutely is), and they will ignore the nervous flutter of your hands.

It's not until you round the corner – ready to march off to House Fortemps – and see Lucia that your heart stills despite itself. Her gaze tells you that – while _you_ were, of course, not her business here – she has been aware of your gaily chattering presence. You wonder what Aymeric has said: likely nothing (you struggle to imagine him unburdening himself to anyone, at least regarding this particular matter: after all, what would he say? ' _I kissed the Warrior of Light, who kissed me, but who has now run away and I'm not entirely sure what to do, and neither does the champion of the land, apparently, because they've run off_ '? The entire idea is absurd), but enough has been _not_ said that she knows _something_ transpired.

You blush despite yourself, while raising your hand in greeting. But the second most important person in Ishgard – well, more or less - gives you a warm smile, and asks after you: how has everything been? After a few minutes of pleasantries, you finally query if you can accompany her on her walk back to the Congregation, where you assume she's going (she is, because of course she is: Lucia is practically as predictable as Aymeric, possibly even more so). She acquiesces with a nod of her head and the slightest of smiles, and so you set off together.

You want to ask after him, but don't – instead, you answer her questions, tell her of things seen and done. She finally says, half under her breath, so quietly you can barely here - "It all sounds so wonderful." The comment makes you stop midstride and smile suddenly. _It was wonderful_ , you tell her. A bit like – a bit like things were long ago, before things got so complicated. Before you were _the Warrior of Light_ , you hasten to clarify.

She smiles at you. And you smile back. She may not understand the totality of your life, but she understands the broad strokes – and that's more than you can say for most people.

You continue strolling leisurely, quite against her natural inclination to speed and efficiency. But it is not far from the stables to the Congregation, and takes precious little time, even at your ambling pace. Reaching the imposing arch that marks her destination, you draw yourself up to look as stately as possible in front of the assorted guards and people milling about – rather impossible under the circumstances, being overdue for a bath and a change of clothes. You pause a bit when, as she carries on with the expected farewells, she tags on a brief comment – _The Lord Commander will be most interested in hearing of the outer lands_. The look she gives you could best be termed _knowing_.

This catches you slightly off guard, and you mumble something about coming down after you've seen to your responsibilities within the city. She is gracious, as befits a person of her station, and does not press you; and so you part on friendly, if not intimate, terms.

As you step off smartly towards the Pillars – feeling anything _but_ smart – you wonder briefly what the next few days hold, but decide not to dwell on it too much. You concentrate instead on the flurries and the way they catch the soft pastel light of late-afternoon-Isghard so well: blues, purples, the faintest tinge of emerald among the rose.


	3. Luminosity

You're exhausted, but try not to think on it as you walk through the Pillars – it's not really hard, as it is _so_ pretty, despite all the political and social muck concealed behind the elegant façades. As you anticipated, there's a warm welcome for you at House Fortemps: they don't mind that you make a beeline for your little bedroom, and flop down on your neatly appointed, but very empty, double bed in an undignified manner. Well, it _would_ be undignified were you in public. But you're not; the secret that the champion of Eorzea sometimes _drools on their pillow_ is safe with Count Edmont and his remaining sons and the guards. They keep your secrets, big and small alike. You can't shake the feeling they know _everything_ about you, even the things you haven't quite admitted to yourself.

When you wake up, it's still light out; you realize suddenly that it must finally be the season of long days in Ishgard - when the evening light goes on and on and on, an endless summer. The light is beautiful – pearly, creamy, luminous – and you prop yourself up on your elbows to take it all in for a few minutes, 'til you get down the business of living. Pale indigos and violets and peaches wash over you, and you are grateful for it.

You woke up thinking of him, thus your early evening movement gestures towards him: wondering where he is, first of all, because you have a sudden, desperate need – _no, no_ , you correct yourself there, _want_ , _not need_ – to see him. You make your way first to the Congregation; the guards there tell you he's not in. This surprises you, and it takes you a few beats to ponder: where, then? Surely not his official _Lord Speaker's_ chambers, he dislikes them so. Home, likely: his home. The one you studiously avoid unless expressly invited, or unless it's a crisis. Tonight, neither is the case. But maybe it's something else.

So, you set off for the Borel mansion – past the high houses, avoiding the Jeweled Croizier, stepping measuredly down a long curving staircase, past the airship landing – it's rather unassuming, though large and pretty nonetheless. You contemplate the well-worn stones of the entrance while one of the guards goes to inquire about whether or not you are allowed in – _who lived here before? And for how long?_ you wonder. His mother's family? Or some other, before that? Who knows. Other than the four high houses, whose pedigree and responsibility is clear enough, the rest of Ishgardian nobility baffles you a bit.

The guard returns shortly; salutes you (of course he does, the sweet young thing: you are the dragon-riding god-slayer in his mind, not the heartsick average person that you actually _are_ in this moment), tells you the Lord Commander awaits you.

His manservant looks practically _relieved_ to see you to your great surprise, and says nothing other than he praises the Fury to see you looking well and that the Lord Commander is upstairs with his dinner. And so you bound up the mostly unfamiliar stairs – only having been here once or twice before – and eagerly pounce upon the door to his study. You are hungry just to see him, and let that hunger overcome you.

When you finally burst into the room, he is clearly awaiting you – standing up, dinner half eaten on the modest table in front of him, minus the _clanging trappings_ you despise so, clad in just a plain robe of royal blue - ever-so-slight smile on his lips. You tell him you have come to report on the outer lands. He smiles a little more broadly.

You're suddenly shy like a fawn and stammer a greeting at him – you didn't quite realize you'd be let through when the Lord Commander was simply trying to eat: he really _was_ in the middle of dinner. Patient Aymeric - patient, beautiful Aymeric – doesn't seem to mind.

"Come, friend – sit, have a drink, tell me of it all."

 _The company will do me well_ he replies calmly to your stammering idiocy, and sitting down again, gestures to the place opposite from him. You take it, from lack of knowing what else to do.

He pours you a goblet of wine, still looking at you with those famously pale blue eyes, faint smile on his lips – asks again what you saw in your weeks away, bids you to just _talk_. No demands except when expressly necessary; he's quite good about that, always has been, and you appreciate it. Still: you're glad you're sitting down, and reach hastily for the cup as soon as you can, so you can simply look into the goblet of wine and not at him. And so you talk, as he asked you to: you ponder on the fact that he demands nothing of you for the most part, except when he asks for the most extraordinary things.

But he never seems to take you for granted, and this is more than you can say for most people. You lean on your elbows, examining the fine workmanship of your goblet: pretty smithing and gemwork, an attractive goblet all told. You run your fingers up and down the contours somewhat frantically, feeling every dip and ridge and fitting.

After your talk – your hastily assembled talk on what you saw ( _nothing important, the usual,_ you wind up saying in a more round-about way) – you can finally bring yourself to look at him fully, say that you probably owe him an explanation.

He stands up slowly, stretches to his full height (not _that_ tall for an Elezen, but still quite tall enough), and holds a hand out in silent invitation for you to reach for him and rise, too – and so you do, despite yourself, although you keep a hand on your goblet just in case (in case of what, you're not sure, but it's something solid and anchoring, and that is enough in this moment). You are suddenly quite close, and feel yourself begin to falter – but he puts an arm around your waist, affectionate and friendly, not demanding anything more. You lean into him, let yourself take in the scent and feel of him.

You wonder how to tell him everything: you can't imagine how, there _is_ no way, really, so you start from the beginning. That first miserable night out of Ishgard, when you sobbed into the soft feathers of your chocobo and asked for _some_ sign from the Twelve, _some_ indication of what was right, what you should do. None was forthcoming, of course, but the weeks spent wandering from here to there, fishing and hunting and riding – ignoring the ways the days and weeks clicked by and passed from one to another to another – had at least settled your soul for the most part.

You sigh after saying all this – after speaking of shifting shadows and wind, things too fleeting to grasp – thinking you have not expressed yourself at all the way you had hoped. But he has cocked an eyebrow and looks at you with an expression best termed _knowing_. You gaze back at him, searching. He is asking for something more, and you wish you knew how to give the right answer to him.

 _I was looking for an answer_ , you finally say after clearing your throat.

He queries what the answer was, reasonably enough, though he doesn't ask the question – although he probably already knows, you note to yourself. You know the answer. You've known it since you fled hastily from this place, and before that, and _long_ before that. Even if you couldn't articulate the _question_ at that precise moment.


	4. Reverence

He looks at you intently, saying nothing, simply waiting for you to go on – though he's not impatient, just letting you pace yourself. You blush hotly – have you ever reddened so much under someone's gaze as you do Aymeric's? Probably not, _certainly_ not recently. You've faced down fearsome enemies and not even shuddered, and yet here you are with the color rising again and again in your cheeks –

Well, there's your answer, truly and unequivocally, as if you hadn't known before you'd shown up on his doorstep unannounced (really, before you fled Ishgard as if pursued by demons). You would never dare say no one's ever made you feel like this before, but _he's_ the one that makes you feel like this _now_. That's what matters. And yet you hesitate.

So you decide to change tack, and ask if he remembers the question he once asked you, not _really_ that long ago – half a year, perhaps, maybe a little longer - that you never got to answer.

"Ah, what it is you wanted for yourself," comes his near-instantaneous response. Apparently it sticks out for him, too. It had been a novel question in your mind, though you're sure he thought it quite innocuous. But it was a rather singular question for you, as no one had ever – at least since everything started, since you set your feet, unknowing, on this path – asked what _you_ wanted, just for you. And, like many singular things, it had lodged itself in your brain, tickled at you occasionally. _What do_ I _want?_ Prior to that moment, you'd ceased thinking of yourself as someone with personal desires and wants, though you had - have - them, of course. You've just learned to ignore them with the single-minded determination you channel to get everything else done. Aymeric was the one that reminded you – accidentally, perhaps – that not _everything_ had to be like that.

So, he remembers the question. You incline your head in reply, a silent _yes_ , _that's the one_ as you let go of the goblet, reach to take one of his hands that simply rests on your waist: he's not being forward, not pulling you to him. But after all, the last time you left him, you were in his lap, so you can understand this bit of tactile – _want_ , perhaps. It's not overstepping anything, since you had been bold enough to straddle him, to try and sate yourself on hungry kisses (is it overstepping, you wonder idly, if both parties are willing – more than willing, are _desirous_ of it?). You're happy to have him so close, too. He lets you take his hand – watches you, as you examine his fingers, his palm, the small sliver of the thin skin of his wrist you can see above the cuff of his robe, so you don't have to look him in the eyes – and you explore all of it with your calloused, roughened fingers as you talk. Your battle-worn hands, the ones you occasionally feel the need to hide in your sleeves when not in gloves - at least in this city, at least when among the idle rich, but never with him.

 _More time riding_ , you try and explain to him, grasping at your ideal future. _More time out of cities. More time just to_ be _. There's not enough of that these days_ … you trail off for a bit as you realize with a bit of surprise that his hands are _still_ rough like yours. You studiously refuse to look him in the eyes: this was not the answer he was expecting, you think. It was not the answer you were expecting to give, you know. You take stock of his palms, the pads of his fingers, the nails - perhaps a little more cared-for than yours; but despite his responsibilities, more battling bureaucracy than battling enemies these days, he still bears the obvious marks of a life spent handling weapons, seriously so. You haven't even seen the scars that shine in some light, the ones he must have - that strange, silvery roadmap of blows dealt and taken, the ones that are probably just like yours, save their particular twists and turns – and who knows if you ever will. So you examine the evidence you have in front of you, and continue to talk – of the imagined _somedays_ you hope will _be_ some day. Open skies, riding, ambling along with no particular responsibility – you leave unsaid his role in all this. You're not even sure yourself what it would be, other than … there _would_ be a role, a rather important one.

You're distracted with too many thoughts and so you alternately stroke your fingers over the calloused flesh of his palm and twine your fingers with his, flexing, gripping. You're playing, letting yourself touch and be touched as you stumble over what you're trying to give voice to. He is patient, letting you do as you will while you talk. You're rambling about what you _do_ want, you do, you want it so badly it _aches_ , so badly you can't stop the sentences tumbling out, adding more things to the list. Still, you aren't able to get around to broaching what you _really_ want. You start to panic internally. You weren't sure how this was going to go, but this certainly hadn't crossed your mind as a possibility.

He senses it, because of course he does, he can feel it, he is nearly as fine as you in battle and knows how to gauge another being without even thinking of it, as you do – the tension and nervousness is singing through you like it would on a wire, and he feels that – and his hand not engaged in your exploration is suddenly upon you, presses your hands together as if in prayer. Your breath catches. You go silent as you let your eyes glance up to his for a moment. He is smiling his inscrutable half-smile. You look back at your hands trapped between his and try to breathe.

Aymeric says nothing. Opening your twinned hands like a book, he brings them to his lips as he leans down slightly, so you really have no choice _but_ to look at him. And so you do, thus blue eyes look back at yours, because he has been watching even when you couldn't bear to. He kisses your palms reverently, _one, two_ , you count silently in your head – such a simple thing, but it is so gentle and intimate, you don't know what to do in response. He takes the decision from you, presses your hands to his chest, to where his heart beats beneath. You feel it, strong and steady and _there_. You're not quite sure what to say to such a demonstration: _to think, the Warrior of Light can be rendered totally mute and still as a statue by such a humble gesture_ , you comment to yourself. If only your enemies knew.

You're frequently silent, of course - more out of a sense of duty, and a sense that it doesn't _matter_ what you say. They won't listen. People will request you go do something, and you will go do it, so what's the point in naming the flaws in the plan, the problems in the conception, the surefire disastrous ending that will result if even one part goes wrong? And it often goes wrong. Horrifically wrong, and then you get to clean up the mess – because people request you go do something, and so you do ... Rinse, repeat. But in this moment, here, with him – this is different. You're speechless in a good way. And so you just look at him with a bit of wonder. The Lord Commander has just kissed your hands the way he might kiss those of a saint. You are no saint. You are just you – unvarnished, not _Warrior of Light_ , just you. And astonishingly, that seems to be enough for him.

After you catch your breath, you respond in kind, rearranging your hands so you hold his. You kiss those beautiful calloused palms of his – _one, two_ – though you let your lips linger longer than he did, so kiss again. _Three, four_ , you count to yourself. You hope for a thousand - a million - more. And then you slowly mirror his action: this time, placing his hands over your heart.

You stand there, looking at each other, and you're silent still – but maybe nothing needs to be said, at least not right now, this is enough. It's not a frustrated silence, but a comfortable one. You smile faintly, the tension dissipating. He smiles back. _Maybe_ , you think to yourself, hope rising in your heart, you can feel it - _maybe this will turn out._ Maybe your _someday_ will become _some day_. Some day soon.


	5. Omega

You wake from the kind of deep, dreamless, boneless sleep that has been in seriously short supply the past few years - eyes not even opening, you just know you are awake. Rolling over on your back, you stretch out under the blankets, and brush against another warm, breathing being. This startles you – your eyes snap open and you are above the presence faster than you can even think.

But it's Aymeric; just Aymeric ( _just_ , you say to yourself wryly – you will never take his presence for granted, especially not like this) – sleeping on still. Your sudden shift hasn't bothered him a bit, and this pleases you: you have a chance to look and breathe and look some more.

And so you take your fill as you lean over him. He's beautiful, of course, even in sleep, and you can imagine the intensity of his gaze, especially when your skin still tingles with the explorations and exertions of a few hours previous. But at the moment, he just looks peaceful, and you are grateful for it. If you weren't afraid you'd wake him, you'd touch him all over: trace his profile with a finger, spread your hands out across his chest, reach lower so that you could make him gasp.

But he's sleeping, and looks peaceful, and you just want to let him be, so you just look.

At some point, you realize you're feeling chilled, and note that the fire is burning low – _very_ low. You brace yourself to brave the cold, to move from a warm bed to a not-warm fireplace, but tossing a few logs on the fire won't be taxing. As you get ready to slip off the bed, readying for the cold of the bedroom, you feel a hand on your wrist. You look back at him, for it could be no other _but_ him.

He looks up at you and, in a serious tone, voice still rough with sleep, inquires if the previous evening had been such a disappointment that you are trying to make a quiet escape. Your eyes widen and you shake your head, about to open your mouth in protest – _surely, he couldn't think that I thought_ – but he gives a gentle laugh at your expression and pulls you back to him.

 _It was said in jest_ , he murmurs into your neck before he kisses you again. You suppose you can ignore the fire for the moment; the two of you are in no danger of catching a chill. He rolls you over so you are beneath him, runs a hand down your side – a firm touch, at once gentle but wanting. You like the way he handles you.

Time passes.

The warmth and the weight of him is making you drowsy again, and you lazily stroke what parts of his well-muscled shoulders and back you can reach, fingers tracing the contours that you hope to learn night after night. You start committing the feel of him to memory, just in case. He explores you in kind, fingers tracing paths down your body, your muscles, your scars. His touch feels like he is turning you into something molten - every place his fingertips trace – and you wonder if this melting feeling can go on forever. You wish it would.

The heated intensity of the evening has given way to something softer, more languorous - at least now, in the darkness of early morning and sleepiness on the part of both of you. You realize suddenly that you are practically limp with the pleasure of touching and being touched again after so long – so very long – so it's just as well. He moves against you like waves lap on the shores around Limsa Lominsa, and you let him, you move with him. You fall back – away, away - and you wonder if he realizes no one has ever quite made you feel like this. Probably not: why would he?

You force yourself to look at him, in order to find some place to anchor yourself in the midst of the feelings assaulting you, physical, mental. He is beautiful, _beautiful._ You have known this for a long time, but you've never had him so close to you – at least, not like this. And you wish you could tell him all of your jumbled thoughts: the way he makes you feel, the way he makes you want to ignore a great many other things, how you just want to hear your name on his lips, in that rich voice of his.

You have a feeling you cannot, so you say none of this, simply let him move against you as you rise to meet him – like a wave, a lapping wave, on the shores of Limsa Lominsa, while you whisper sweet, nonsensical nothings to each other.

When your name finally crosses his lips, it sounds to you as though he utters a benediction.


	6. Prismatic

Months pass, and life carries on as it has for the past few years: go here, do this, talk to so-and-so, kill that, come back, go back out again, deliver this thing, go speak with someone else, take that other thing back, keep your eye on a looming political problem that will eventually be solved at the business end of a weapon or several (only to create a new crisis in its wake, because of course it does: what fun would a problem with an actual end be? And people wonder why you're sometimes not the beacon of shining optimism you're apparently supposed to represent), and on and on and _on_. But having something – some _one_ , more precisely – to ground yourself in takes the edge off. Still, you are in no one place for much longer than a few days, and that includes Ishgard. So he writes you letters during your long absences - nothing effusive, but affectionate, close.

You treasure them, not simply because they're from him, but because they are one bit of normalcy in increasingly abnormal times. Who knew you'd one day dream of those simple days past, back when the biggest worry was some beast tribe or another summoning a primal, or solving ancient blood feuds? He writes of bureaucratic headaches, the way the snow looks in late afternoon light, what books he's been reading in your absence, rebuilding efforts, asks how you are faring, always says he looks forward to your next appearance in the city. That he misses you.

You write back when you can, more often than not late at night when you can't sleep. You miss him, too, more than you can bear to say. His letters to you are on crisp, heavy paper, his penmanship elegant; yours to him are scribbled on whatever you can find – a page torn from your worn journal, the backs of flyers from all over the realm, hawking various snake oil remedies, dodgy-looking armor at suspiciously cheap prices, or back-alley restaurant specials that seem to offer little more than the promise of food poisoning. And the less said about your penmanship, the better. You write most often with a nub of pencil, which smudges – but at least doesn't run if it gets wet.

More than a few letters arrive to the august halls of the Congregation bearing soot and browned edges after you and your possessions get caught in a downpour, which necessitates having to dry them out over campfires. You found it mildly embarrassing to be writing the Lord Commander notes scrawled on scrap paper (though you suppose some of them at least give him a taste of the wild world of commerce beyond Ishgard), which you said in a letter written shortly after your departure, until he wrote back and said he rather likes your missives and doesn't care about your penmanship, since the immediateness of them makes him feel a little closer to you and your travels. Singe marks, advertisements, and all.

He's wonderfully unpretentious, despite the trappings and the titles; you've always liked this about him.

Half a year after you fled Ishgard, the Lord Commander's embrace, and your own feelings - maybe a little longer (or maybe a little less – you're still not much for keeping time) - you come back again as you often have. There's a lull as the Scions ponder their next move, so you do something for _you_ , and come back to a city you grow fonder of with each passing moon, and someone you've been fond of for a very long time. Thus, you find yourself making the familiar walk from the Holy Stables to the Congregation once again.

You are let through without an announcement, and he glances up from his paperwork as you enter, looking slightly astonished to see you – not Lucia, not a knight. Just you. You smile as you lean against the door to shut it. He smiles back, says he wasn't expecting you so soon. You tell him you'd fling yourself on him in happiness, but alas – he's arrayed, as always, in his _clanging trappings_.

He leans back in his chair, arches a brow and inclines his head at you, smiling faintly. _Something that could be attended to a few hours hence, should you so wish_ , he replies coolly. A shiver runs up your spine in anticipation – but it's the middle of the afternoon, and as much as you wish you could insist on it now, the Congregation is buzzing with activity and it would be folly. You haven't been sneaking around, precisely – you've been gone too much for your movements to register even to those who might be paying attention – but you haven't been openly flaunting everything, either.

You make your way to his desk, lean across it – smiling still – and tell him you have a few days to yourself. How many, you're not sure – two or three at least, though. You leave unsaid the fact you came back just for him; he knows. He leans forward, reaches across the desk for your hands, which you offer up willingly, just so that you can touch him again, and he places a kiss on each palm – _one, two_ , you count silently once more. You're well on your way to a thousand. And, in movement that has quickly become ritual for the two of you, you shuffle your hands and kiss his palms – _three, four_ – before straightening up again. You'll be by after you've seen to your other obligations in the city. He'll be waiting patiently, minus the clanging trappings.

Later in the afternoon, as you sit in the library of the Fortemps Manor, keeping Count Edmont company as he works on his narrative, you gaze out the window and take in the flurries beyond. It's true, the endless snow is tiresome, but it's also pretty at times. You let yourself just follow the shifting patterns, the way the sun changes, the various colors. The count breaks your reverie by asking what – he gives a knowing glance, accompanied by a gentle smile – has such a hold on you. He knows, you know. Not because you told him, but because he is quite perceptive, and you don't feel the need to keep your defenses up in this space, haven't for many years. Also: you're not given to sitting by windows and daydreaming, yet here you are. You smile back at him, saying nothing, and simply shake your head.

Hours later, long after you've excused yourself from the Fortemps manor and made your way down a curving staircase, past the airship landing and the loitering elites gossiping about scullery maids and romantic liaisons (not yours, thankfully), you're pressed against Aymeric, drowsy, sated for the moment.

It is late in the night – or early in the morning, depends on your perspective – and he is beneath you as you prop yourself up on his chest, both of you still slick with sweat, just talking as he runs his hands over your back, fingers working into the knots that have built up. You tell him of the past few weeks, few months: things you've alluded to in letters, but haven't felt comfortable writing in detail, just in case. The Warrior of Darkness nonsense had you on edge – such an odd interlude, is it actually over? You're not sure – but worse yet is the Griffin. You have a sense of foreboding, which – even considering everything _else_ you've come through – is rare for you. Everyone is missing something … you try to trace the roots of your apprehension, but can't figure out what it could be, and that makes you nervous.

He watches with those eyes, strokes you all over with great tenderness, and – perhaps most importantly – _doesn't_ say everything is going to be fine. He believes in you, but also recognizes (as you do) that you are _not_ a god, all things cannot be done through you. He doesn't offer some pat, tidy plan that will fix all eventualities (like those ever work, in any case): he just listens as you talk through possibilities and maybes and perhapses.

And when you tire of talking, just want to feel again for a while, he acquiesces to that, too. He exhausts you in the best way; enough so that you are able finally to sink into a quiet sleep, after folding yourself into him.

When you wake, the morning sun is finally breaking through the clouds. You're a tangle of limbs and flesh and bedsheets, twined with one another. The rays catch the angles in the cut glass of the windows, casting a multitude of tiny, pale rainbows on the wall – you lay there in this bed of his, as he slumbers yet beside you, and watch as the pattern of colors moves slowly alongside the dawn. A minor thing, but quite beautiful nonetheless.

You have no idea where this will lead in the long term, but in the _now_ , you are simply grateful that he is beside you, sleeping. You long ago stopped trying to guess what twists and obstacles would be flung in your path, as it had become an exercise in futility that simply left you frustrated and sleepless. But perhaps there are ways to move forward that don't only involve flinging yourself headlong from one problem to the next. You can't fix everything; and at least at the moment, there is something in your life that doesn't _need_ to be fixed.

He moves in sleep, or half-sleep, reaching for one of your hands, which you let him take – his calloused palm and fingers grasp yours reassuringly. A veritable army of rainbows is creeping up the foot of the bed as the light shifts with the rising sun, the moving clouds. There is time enough later to think and ponder and plan, you muse as you watch the riot of color with quiet delight. For now, you press closer to him as he wraps an arm around your waist. Now is time to just _be_.


End file.
